


Rainbow Connection

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Angst, Oblivious!Arthur, Patient!Eames, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9899030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: A single unguarded moment changes everything.During a job in Durango, Colorado, Arthur sees a side of Eames he'd never imagined. As Eames opens up to him, Arthur realizes that a challenge has been issued - can he meet it without losing himself?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to Poorwendy, whose spur of the moment prompt on slack seemed like a fun, easy little thing to write.... and then it grew into this, which is at least ten times longer than I first imagined it would be. I hope you like it!
> 
> Much love to Queen Thayet and Deinvati for the beta, input and cheerleading!

It was unusual for everyone to have their own rental cars on a job like this, but Eames needed to live out by the forgery target and Arthur needed to stay close to the site, so it just made sense. What didn’t make sense, however, was the silhouette of Eames in his white 2011 Chrysler 300. He had said he was heading back to his flat twenty minutes ago, why was he still in the parking lot? 

Arthur walked over, peering through the window of the car as he approached and yes, it looked like Eames was buckled up and ready to drive, he just-- wasn’t. Well, that was all for the best; Arthur needed to remind him to be early in the morning.

Arthur knocked on the window, a quick polite rap of the knuckles. It was at that instant that he registered the wetness on Eames’ face, the closed eyes, the slight shaking of his large frame. Arthur’s eyes widened as he stepped back, hoping that perhaps in his -- dear god -- emotional state, Eames hadn’t heard the knock. Luck wasn’t with him, however; Eames startled and looked over, then scrubbed over his face with one hand and rolled the passenger window down with the other. 

“Yeah?” he asked brusquely, his voice rough. Arthur had no words, it had completely slipped his mind why he’d even wandered over to Eames’ car. He shrugged helplessly and backed away another step. “It’s okay,” he managed after a moment, as Eames continued to stare at him. 

“It’s -- yeah, it’s okay,” Eames repeated. He nodded firmly and turned his eyes to the steering wheel, starting the car. “See you tomorrow,” he said to Arthur. “Unless there was something..?” Eames seemed almost back to normal now, but Arthur definitely wasn’t. 

“No, no. It’s -- fine. Tomorrow. Be early,” he ended up calling out as Eames shifted into gear and rolled away, the window sliding up. 

* * *

Well, what the fuck had that been, Arthur wondered to himself as he looked around at his anonymous apartment, ambiguously Native American art on the taupe walls, badly assembled ikea furniture. Eames had been- his mind balked at the word, but there wasn’t another one to fit the bill. Eames had been crying. In his car. 

He was not prepared for this. Cobb he could handle. Cobb he understood. Or at least, if he didn’t completely understand him, he at least knew him well. But Eames was, even after all these years, a near-total mystery. They had no mutual language for checking on each other’s well being. Physical safety, sure. Geographical location, yeah - they pretty much always knew where the other was at all times. Weirdly enough. 

Arthur pulled open the door on the cheap fridge and retrieved his corked bottle of mediocre pinot gris, slopped himself a careless tumbler of it. He sat and sipped and opened his laptop to work, but he didn’t work that night. 

* * *

Come the morning, Arthur was mostly over it. Eames was crying, so what. People had emotions - even slick, rascally con men had emotions. It was fine, it was normal. And most importantly, it was private and none of Arthur’s business. He put on his game face as Eames sauntered in, relieved to note that he had his customary air of good-natured invulnerability about him.

He’d just looked so sad. 

The thought kept recurring to Arthur. Not the thought - the image. Those eyes, looking towards him but only partially seeing him, trained on some other vista of inexpressible grief. He’d looked _so sad._

Arthur shook himself and turned back to his research on the mark’s former drug connections. He really didn’t need this distraction. He had plenty to be getting on with as it was.

Eames wandered over, hands slung in his pockets, and stood over Arthur’s shoulder. “Sorry about that,” he murmured, low enough that none of the rest of the team would hear. 

A thrill ran up Arthur’s spine at the feel of his breath on the side of his face. “Not a problem. Everything okay?” 

Eames laughed, brushing off Arthur’s concern. “Just got a bit maudlin about a song on the radio,” he said lightly, then walked away.

What the fuck. “What song?” Arthur asked under his breath, watching as Eames sat himself at the folding table that passed for his desk in the makeshift office.

By lunchtime, the question had become a burning question that had joined the image of Eames’ stricken face, popping into his head repeatedly and randomly. 

“A bit maudlin about a song.” Not fucking likely. That was grief Arthur had seen. Arthur wished wholeheartedly that he hadn’t gone out to Eames’ car, he did not want to get fixated on this.

By the time Arthur was back at his apartment, in the wee hours of the morning, it was clear that he was fixated on it whether he liked it or not. He lay in bed wracked with the need to know what the song was, why it affected Eames that deeply. It was stupid.

He really didn’t need to give his wayward psyche any excuses to weaken Arthur’s defenses against Eames. Through long experience, Arthur had found it expedient to suppress his awareness of Eames’ … well, Eames’ everything. Eames’ smile, Eames’ laugh, Eames’ swagger, Eames’ wit, Eames’ shoulders. This sudden and invasive curiosity, while arguably understandable, was dangerous to his clarity of mind and purpose where Eames was involved. Eames was a co-worker. Eames was off limits. 

He got out of bed and opened up his laptop, intending to finish his research on drug-assisted interrogation techniques, but he ended up surfing Porn Hub for three hours, jerking off halfheartedly and feeling bad about himself. 

* * *

 

Getting into a car accident on his way to the abandoned craft supply store that housed their operation was not in the plan. But here he was anyway, ordering a Lyft and watching as his rental was towed away, never to be seen again. His driver turned out to be an aspiring stand-up comedian and insisted on trying out new bits on him, which was initially infuriating until she busted him up laughing three times in a row. 

Arthur got out of the car feeling much better, with a huge smile on his face. He wished her the best both warmly and sincerely, which was approaching unheard-levels of enthusiasm for him. Eames was across the lot, just getting out of his car when he sighted Arthur and his lingering smile, which he returned five-fold. Arthur turned away with a little half-wave.

As he walked around the back of the building, he felt Eames’ sidle up alongside him and forced himself not to stiffen in response. Eames usually made him feel ambushed at the best of times. 

“Big night?” His tone was hard to place- definitely teasing, but there was a thread of another kind of insinuation there. 

“Ha. Sure, depends on your definition of big,” Arthur said blandly. It was only after the words left his mouth that Eames’ meaning came through. Eames thought that he’d slept with the driver. He glanced over at him, an eyebrow raised, to see Eames looking at him quizzically. 

“She didn’t look that big to me. Do you like them big?” Eames asked, his own eyebrows arched in surprise. Arthur’s gaze involuntarily swept Eames’ body, muscles straining at the fabric of his shitty jacket. He exhaled in exasperation. “What are you even talking about? She was my Lyft driver. I wrecked my car on the way here.”

“Ah, I see,” Eames said smoothly, humor warming his voice. “Mitra won’t be best pleased. Well, darling, if you need a ride later, I’m sure I could be persuaded to oblige.” Eames opened the door for him, and Arthur entered, feeling intensely self-conscious and not knowing why. He stalked to his laptop, ignoring the box of donuts from which Eames scooped up a jelly donut and bit into with relish. 

Near the end of the day, Eames kept trying to get Arthur’s attention from across the tiled expanse of the store, and Arthur kept pretending he didn’t see. Until he looked up at just the wrong time and Eames waved and pantomimed driving a car then tilted his head questioningly, a half-smile curving his mouth.

Arthur frowned and shook his head instinctively then focused on his laptop again, only to remember that he’d hit a wall in his research. He surfed the web for a minute, biding his time. When he deemed Eames must have moved on to something else, he slung on his jacket, grabbed his bag and split, heading quickly for the door. Eames caught up with him, the sneaky bastard. “You don’t want to pay for another Lyft, do you? I’ll give you a ride. It’s on my way.”

It most certainly wasn’t on his way. Arthur knew that. Eames knew Arthur knew that. But Arthur was curious, still, and maybe in the car with the radio on, there would be some way to -- ask? No, certainly not. But some way to -- some way-- Arthur’s mind was blanking out and he realized he’d followed Eames all the way to his car without ever actually saying anything in response.

“Hey. Thanks.” He glanced over to Eames, who gave him a rather strained but genuine looking smile, then opened the door and got in. The interior was immaculate in the manner of rented vehicles, except that it stank of e-cigs and had innumerable coffee cups in all the million holders spread through the car. 

Arthur strapped himself in and watched as Eames flipped on the radio. They drove out of the lot and down the road that led to the duplex where Arthur was stationed for the duration of the job. It was a short ride and there wouldn’t be any time to-- what? Arthur brain stumbled to a halt again. Interrogate Eames? 

“So, yesterday,” Eames said in an artificially light voice, which put Arthur on edge. Eames was a good enough actor to be convincing if he wanted to be. He wanted Arthur to know that he was not at ease, but he didn’t want to underscore it with actual vulnerability. Arthur felt like they were suddenly on a tightwire, about to potentially tip into something treacherous.

“Hey, it’s no problem,” Arthur said, injecting enough warmth to be human, not so much as to invite the confession that seemed to want to spill over Eames’ lips. 

“Rainbow Connection.” 

Okay. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Arthur waited for more, for clarification. 

“That was the song,” Eames finally said, and oh no, there was real emotion in his voice. It set up a spreading feeling of unwilling tenderness in Arthur’s chest. Part of him wanted to undo his strap and jump from the car. Part of him wanted to hear the rest. 

But it was clear that Eames didn’t plan to continue if Arthur didn’t show that he was there, with him. 

“It’s a -- I liked that song, when I was a kid. My sister used to play it.” There, that was personal. Now he’d shared something too. 

“Mm. It’s a funny song, isn’t it? It has a certain meaning for me.” Eames halted again, swallowed. Shit, this was going to be a big confession. What the fuck. Why Arthur, why now? Oh yeah, because he’d surprised the man crying in his car. Couldn’t they just forget it? Why did he need an explanation? But he couldn’t deny that a large part of him was reaching out for the rest of the story, yearning to know what the meaning was, where it stemmed from. 

They were coming up to the duplex now, time was running out. Arthur would get a new car in the morning, there would be no more rides, no more halting confidences. Eames pulled into the driveway and put the car in park, but made no further move.

“What meaning?” Arthur finally asked, feeling a mounting sense of dread. 

“My -- someone special to me passed away. It was his favorite song, at the end. I wasn’t.” Eames paused, took a breath. “Able to be there.”

Arthur sat in stunned silence. He was a capable person. He could kill a man twice his size with only his hands, he could quickly gather intel on the most elusive figures, he could tie a stevedore stopknot and a slippery eight loop. He could not figure out what to say next. 

“It was a while ago, Arthur. I’m alright. It’s just - it never ends.” Eames turned to him then, his expression grave, lost. Arthur, bewildered, put his hand on Eames’ where it rested on the gearshift. He nodded and looked down at his lap, then over at Eames again. Eames was looking out the windshield at the garage door. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t know.”

“No,” Eames confirmed. “Can I come in?”

Arthur’s sensation of them being on a tightrope intensified. He could only hope they made it to the other side, wherever that was. 

“Sure.” He cast a fleeting look at Eames then climbed out of the car and walked to the door, hearing Eames right behind him. His heart raced and he was shocked to see his hands shaking. He was beginning to suspect he’d suppressed awareness of a lot more than just Eames’ smile and shoulders. 

Arthur walked down the hallway into the living room, listening for Eames’ progress. The door shut and he felt like he’d been thrown in a cage with a wild animal. Which was ludicrous. This was just Eames, and he was just a bit sad. Why was this so scary?

Arthur took a right into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “You want something to drink?” He could hear Eames pacing the living room, then subsiding onto the couch. 

“What have you got?” Eames called out.

“Um, mineral water, pinot gris, I could make some coffee.” 

“No beer? No tea?” Eames chuckled. “I’ll have a coffee if it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble.” 

Yes, it was trouble. This whole thing was trouble. 

He set about making the coffee, which he at least knew wouldn’t be garbage because he’d found the one decent co-op in town and gotten some locally roasted beans there. As it percolated, he walked back into the living room and sat in the chair opposite the couch, then wished he hadn’t because Eames leaned towards him, forearms on his thighs, his face intense. 

“I didn’t mean to spring this on you,” he said, and that was bullshit. Of course he hadn’t deliberately _sprung_ anything on him per se, it was Arthur’s doing that had landed them here in the realm of having to be honest or something. But he hadn’t had to press the issue by inviting himself in. Arthur made a noncommittal sound.

“We don’t have to talk about this. I just thought you might want an explanation. You seemed really jarred.” 

Arthur wanted to laugh at that - he was the one who seemed jarred? It was Eames who’d been crying. But he didn’t because he was still curious, damn it.

“Who was he?” 

“My partner.” Arthur raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t known Eames had had a partner in dreamshare before joining up with him and Cobb. He’d always assumed he was a maverick lone wolf. 

“Your-” he began to ask.

“I should clarify,” Eames broke in. “My boyfriend. Well. He was - I was going to ask him to be- to marry me.” Eames’ uncharacteristic stumbling over this was accompanied by him staring at the floor, one hand compulsively rubbing the fabric of his pants where they stretched over his knee. “And then he got sick. Leukemia. But they were treating it. And he said it was fine to take the job. The doctors seemed confident.” He paused for a long moment, hands twisting in his lap. “When I came back, he was gone.” 

“I-” Arthur managed to get that word out and stopped cold. He’d had no idea about _any_ of this. Eames was gay. Well, sure - that was always in the realm of possibility. He gave off a calculated air of pansexuality and it was clear he enjoyed his job, which nearly always entailed some degree of seduction no matter gender of the mark. 

But a boyfriend. A fiance. A marriage. None of these things had ever entered into Arthur’s picture of the man. And then this tragedy; how had he not known? 

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur forced out, low and soft. 

“He had friends with him. Good friends. Thank god for that,” he said with resigned sigh. “They went above and beyond for him. I- I don’t know that I could have done as well. I have wondered if he was relieved I left.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Arthur said, because that’s what you said in a situation like this. Even if it felt empty. He was still reeling from the disclosure that Eames was merely a human being, a man with entanglements, messy personal attachments, part of the fabric of human misery and happenstance. He felt a lump rising in his throat, his eyes prickling. “I’ll just check on the-” he said, as he got up to get them both coffee.

When he set the cup in front of him, Eames just stared at it for moment. Then he said “Cheers,” and picked it up to take a sip. Arthur sat down with his own cup but didn’t drink. It was getting near to eight pm and if he drank coffee now he’d never get to sleep. “I might actually have some wine,” he said quietly as he got up to go the kitchen again. Eames nodded absently.

“I can go. Thanks for letting me come in. I’m sorry that-” Eames had stood and was looking around as though he needed to gather his stuff, but he hadn’t brought anything in.

“No. Don’t. It’s fine. You don’t have to leave if- if you don’t - Please stay,” Arthur found himself saying. “Have some wine,” he added lamely, in an attempt to spare them both embarrassment. However, given that the wine was old, cheap and more than half gone, he wasn’t sure that would be even partially successful.

Eames’ eyes were shining but his face composed. He nodded once and sat back down on the edge of his seat. “Thanks, I will.” Arthur took the excuse to go to the kitchen.

“Or we could have some dinner,” Arthur said as he got the wine out and realized it was actually almost gone. “I don’t have much but I could order something. Or I could make, uh,” he paused to rifle through the cabinets. “Yeah, we could order in.”

Eames chuckled softly. “That sounds good. If you’re sure.” 

“Thai or pizza?”

“Thai would be lovely.”

Arthur looked up a restaurant on his laptop and called in an order, confirming that Eames wanted his food as hot as legally allowed.

Once that was done, a deeply awkward silence settled over them. Eames stood up again and paced a bit, then said, “Look, I’m not really one for wine, would you mind if I went to the shop around the corner to pick up some lager?” 

Arthur nodded, relieved. “Yeah, no problem. Not sure they’re going to have anything good, though.”

Eames laughed. “I’m not too fussed. Back in a mo’.” He walked out the door and Arthur allowed himself to have the physiological reaction he’d been suppressing for the last half hour. He ran both hands through his hair, squatting down on the floor and just wallowing in the overwhelming weirdness of the situation. Then he got himself back up, stretched, let out a couple of derisively disbelieving chuckles and leaned on the counter as if it could give him the internal fortitude to make it through dinner. 

Dinner with Eames.

He’d be lying to himself if he pretended he hadn’t thought about this. Well, that was an overstatement. He’d caught the idea floating around the periphery of his thoughts a few times, is all. What it would be like to go on a … an _outing_ with Eames, what would it be like to just -- get to know him a little. Outside of risking their lives and sanity for the rich and unscrupulous. That’s it, just tiny idle speculations, and ones that he never followed very far, brushing them away like cobwebs. 

In what felt like no time at all, Eames was back from the store with a six pack of crummy beer and a fifth of decent-ish bourbon. Arthur felt simultaneously the anticipatory relief of a good buzz and fear that lowering his guard around Eames like this, especially after all those revelations, was a really bad idea. 

Eames came into the kitchen where Arthur sat at the island counter with his laptop and rummaged through the drawers for a bottle opener. He uncapped two beers and slid one over to Arthur, who took it gratefully and swore to himself it would be his only drink that evening. 

Eames held up his beer as if for a toast and cocked his head at Arthur, and Arthur reluctantly clinked bottles with him. The doorbell rang and he leapt up to answer, coming back with the bags of food and slinging them on the counter in front of Eames. 

Instead of tearing into them, though, Eames unpacked everything very deliberately and quirked an eyebrow at Arthur. “Set the table?” he asked. Arthur replied, “Sure,” and went to get plates and forks and napkins, for crying out loud. This was nothing like two bachelor pals just eating food together for convenience’s sake. 

Once they were seated at the tiny dining room table, Eames’ feet brushing against Arthur’s every so often and making him jump, Eames focused on his food for a few minutes and then zeroed in on Arthur.

“Mm, this is good. What about you?” he asked, taking a swig of his beer. 

Arthur looked up. “My food? Yeah, it’s fine.” He shoveled in another bite in case Eames asked any follow-up questions. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was too much like a date, and not a great one, either. Of course, that was because he was resisting it - if he gave in and relaxed, it might be more enjoyable. Then again, Eames probably wasn’t thinking of it as remotely like a date, which just made the fact that Arthur _was_ all the more humiliating. Which made him stiff. Which made the whole thing just circularly awful.

“No, I meant- anyone special in your life?” Eames asked the question then looked back down at his food, as if this were a normal question with no particular emotional resonance. And maybe it was a normal question. There was no reason for Arthur’s heart to kick up like that. 

“Uh, no. Not really.”

“Never? I find that hard to believe.” Eames caught his eye but he, surprisingly, didn’t look impish or teasing. He seemed to be merely stating a fact. 

“Not- not never, obviously,” Arthur stuttered around his inability to grasp that this conversation was happening, after literally years of them never, but never, sharing anything more personal than idle small talk and taking dream-bullets for each other. 

“I’m feeling a little exposed here, Arthur,” Eames said with a gentle smile. “A little turnabout would be most welcome, if you could play along.”

Arthur swallowed his food and also a retort, something along the lines of “I’m not the one who confessed the tragic death of a lover to a co-worker out of the blue.” Because it wasn’t out of the blue, was it, and maybe it was past time for them to know each other. 

“I had a boyfriend in LA,” he said, carefully not checking Eames’ reaction to the confirmation of his sexuality, keeping his focus on the noodles dangling from his fork. “But we broke up two years ago. I’ve never really lost anyone. A cat. That’s it,” he said, grimacing as he realized he’d just arguably compared grieving a pet to grieving a romantic partner, a human being, an almost-husband. 

Eames reached a hand across the table. “I’m so sorry about your cat,” he said solemnly. Arthur furrowed his brow as he tried to decide if he was serious-- was he _humoring_ Arthur about the aridness of his emotional landscape? 

“It’s okay, I didn’t like the cat that much, it was an asshole,” Arthur said, then gave himself a vicious internal kick. 

He glanced over at last to see Eames with his head down, clearly suppressing a laugh. “What?” he asked, a little pissed off.

“You’re-- you’re really not good at this, Arthur,” Eames said, and snickered. Then he burst out with full-bellied laughter, putting his hands over his face and pushing away from the table. 

Arthur started laughing, too, just a chuckle at first; then the dam broke. The need to release tension overrode his instinctive dislike of being found wanting; suddenly, this whole thing was the most hilarious thing to ever happen. He was ‘not good’ at this - that was a very generous understatement. 

Their laughter mingled for a moment then died down.

“I’m sorry,” Eames said, still laughing slightly. “You’ve been actually quite kind, Arthur. That wasn’t fair to say, that you’re not good at this.” He was totally sober now, looking at Arthur with a softness in his eyes that was painful, untenable.

“You want a drink?” Arthur said. “That bourbon didn’t look bad.” So much for his resolve not to drink more than the one beer. 

“Sounds delightful,” Eames said, getting up and taking his plate to the sink. Arthur got up and did the same, then snagged the bottle out its plastic bag and wrenched the cap off, bringing to his nose. He inhaled and sighed. “I love the smell of whiskey,” he said. 

“Why Arthur, I had no inkling you were so sensually inclined, you always appear invulnerable to the sundry temptations of the waking world.” Arthur’s mouth twisted at this backhanded-- compliment? Insult? With Eames it was impossible to say, but his voice was warm and he was standing close. Probably a compliment, or intended as one. 

Arthur poured a measure of bourbon for both of them and handed one to Eames, then went to the living room and flopped on the couch. He took a sizable swallow and watched as Eames sat down in the same chair as before. 

“You, uh, want to watch tv?” he asked, uncertain of exactly what they were supposed to be doing now. 

“Rather not. Cards?” Eames produced a deck seemingly out of nowhere, which was a trick Arthur was not surprised to find him capable of. 

“Sure, what game,” Arthur replied, feeling suddenly reckless. He could hold his own in several poker variants, especially since Eames couldn’t shark him - he knew exactly how likely it was that Eames would try to cheat. 

“Cribbage,” Eames said, smirking at him. 

“I don’t have a board,” Arthur said, smirking back, feeling silly and exposed. 

“Don’t need one, do we? You just keep count of points with pen and paper. Or in your head, if you’re a savant. Oh! And it so happens you are! Go on, Arthur, I trust you to keep track.”

Arthur smiled in spite of himself. It wasn’t necessarily a trait he was all that proud of, given that it was instinctive and required no effort, but he was pleased that Eames noticed and remembered. It’d only come in handy once before. Years ago.

His pleasure was short-lived as he recalled that he barely knew the rules to cribbage. Eames could make up rules out of thin air and Arthur wasn’t sure he would know if they were legit or not. 

In the end, they played cribbage but Arthur kept his laptop open to check that any new rule Eames trotted out was actually game-standard. They mostly were, except the rule that any time you failed to peg a point you were entitled to, the other player could flick any part of your anatomy they liked. Eames got away with it three times, though, before he thought to check.

He was pretty sure Eames let him win the remaining rounds.

 

* * *

 

The next day, after everyone had packed up to go, Arthur was lingering at his laptop, ostensibly double-checking some figures. He was dimly aware, though, that his continued presence in the headquarters had more to do with the fact that Eames had said he would be back after lunch, and he hadn’t yet shown up. 

At a quarter after nine, Arthur had to admit that he was ravenously hungry and also disgruntled at himself for - there was no other word for it - waiting for Eames. 

He’d woken up in the morning feeling light in an unaccustomed way, like things were still possible in the world, there were moments of beauty to look forward to, life could still surprise and delight. Getting a rental car at six am, which normally would have been a chore, had actually been a breeze. The morning light had been lovely, the song on the radio surprisingly not grating, the low-level functionary behind the service desk had joked with him and he’d joked back. 

He sat for a moment more, berating himself, then leapt into action, throwing his laptop into his bag, jerking on his jacket. His stomach lurched when the rear door creaked open and Eames loped in, heading for his workspace but changing course when he sighted Arthur. 

“Ah, burning the midnight oil, are we?” he said, leaning a thigh against the desk Arthur stood behind. 

“Seeing as how it’s just after nine, no,” Arthur said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That light feeling was returning, expanding in his chest, and he didn’t know what to do with it. 

“Have you eaten?” Eames asked casually, not looking at Arthur.

“Um, no,” Arthur replied and tried to ignore how his heart beat faster. He didn’t like the implication, but he did like the implied invitation. “You want to get something?” 

Eames nodded, and then looked at him. There was relief on his face, almost naked in its intensity. The realization hit Arthur hard then, and it wasn’t pleasant. Eames was drowning in loneliness. He needed someone, and Arthur was around.

Very well, then. Arthur would be around. 

“Where to?”

They ended up at a Himalayan restaurant, both of them sick of tacos by now, and Arthur debated whether to get a mango lassi or a beer. Eames ordered a Kingfisher so he followed suit, vowing that tonight this really would be his only drink.

He was wrong about that, of course.

After dinner, during which Eames made glib small talk about the other team members and Arthur interjected once or twice with cutting observations of his own, Eames proposed that they go out.

“Where?”

“Out, Arthur,” Eames said, waving a hand towards what Arthur assumed was life, the universe and everything. “Where people go to have drinks or hear music or see other people. All of the above! Let us go then, you and I,” he says, taking Arthur’s arm and not waiting for a reply. He’d had three beers at dinner and Arthur now realized that Eames might be a bit drunk. The evening was indeed spread out against the sky, in oranges and pinks, the barest inkling of a deep blue creeping in.

They ended up at a bar on the main drag in town, a touristy stretch but the bar was okay; lingeringly authentic, for a certain value of authenticity. There were no tables free so they sat at the bar, Eames facing out towards the rest of the space, propping himself by the elbows on the long plank of polished wood, holding his whiskey up to the dim light. Rihanna played on the jukebox, pleading for help with her unruly feelings. 

Suddenly, Eames turned to face Arthur and this time his face was not a study in loneliness. It was alight with curiosity. “Tell me about that boyfriend, Arthur,” he said. “I hardly know ye. Let’s get intimate.” 

Arthur felt all the blood rush to his face. Fucking Eames. This kind of thing was par for the course with him generally, but he hadn’t tried to draw Arthur out this way in a long time. Not after Reno, when Arthur shut him down a little more viciously than he’d intended to. 

“What do you want to know,” he said, taking a sip of his drink and looking towards the door where a group of college kids tumbled in. Eames let them order drinks in their youthful boisterous way before he spoke again. 

“Where did you meet?” 

Ugh, Arthur hated answering this question. “Online. But not the personals.” He couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of his voice. 

“Oh? How so?” Eames looked intrigued but mild, nonjudgmental. This must be what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of his cons. Like you’re the most interesting person in the world and nothing you say will be held against you.

“It was actually in the comments section of an article on military surveillance.”

Eames barked out a laugh and Arthur smiled. It _was_ kind of funny.

“Did you love him?” Eames asked, toying with his drink. 

What a question to come out and ask. “No,” Arthur stated flatly. “I don’t-” he broke off, not wanting to say what was bursting out him, which was that he wasn’t sure he’d ever been in love. Not with someone who returned the feelings. Not in the way that other people meant. It was too pathetic. He didn’t need Eames’ sympathy, Eames needed his. This was not about Arthur.

“Don’t what? Want to talk about this?” 

“About him. I just- he wasn’t a great guy. We broke up for a reason. What about your, uh-” God, he really was no good at this. “What was he like?”

Eames cast a swift look at Arthur, seeming to gauge the sincerity of his inquiry. Apparently satisfied, he looked up at the ceiling and said, “He was lovely. He was also awful, in a way. We argued a lot, but I always felt that was a good thing, in the long run. Of course, there wasn’t a long run, as it turned out.” He stopped for a moment, took a drink. 

“He liked to write sci-fi about lesbians,” Eames continued, laughing. “I’m not completely sure why. I loved his writing, though. He was very sensitive, very talented.”

Arthur felt like he was wading into a murky swamp. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know this much about Eames, but all the same he was being sucked down. 

“How did you meet?”

“Gambling.” At Arthur’s slight eye roll, he added with a wry smile, “Not like that. He was a dealer. He was just doing it to put himself through law school.”

“He was a lawyer?” 

“Not when we met, but by the time we started dating, yes. He’d just passed the bar.” Eames smiled wistfully, rubbed his thumb across his lower lip. “He wouldn’t go on a date with me until he was done with school. He said I was too distracting.”

Arthur nodded, feeling faintly sick. Eames was distracting. It was a problem he’d wrestled with for years. 

“I don’t want to mislead you. It was a deeply flawed relationship. We probably wouldn’t have lasted, if he’d lived. As if that weren’t evident in the fact that he let me leave, that I accepted the job.”

Arthur shifted on his seat, then turned around and ordered two more drinks. He felt like drinking both but he handed one to Eames, who sipped it while giving him a speculative glance. 

 

“But you were happy with him,” Arthur said. 

Eames nodded. “For a while. Mostly, I had illusions about him that time and closeness didn’t sustain. I loved him. The cruelest thing about death is that there can be no resolution. But!” he said with forced cheer, turning to face Arthur. “The same thing cannot be said about life! Drink up, Arthur. We’re still here.” 

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until two days later that Arthur saw Eames again. After they left the bar they’d taken separate cabs back to their respective dwellings and then Eames had evidently had to tail the forgery target to do some additional observation. It wasn’t like Arthur had asked about it, he’d just managed to catch a conversation between Mitra and Abdul about it. “Catch” as in deliberately listened in on and then interrupted to cover his tracks, but nevertheless. He didn’t actually ask after Eames’ whereabouts, and that was the point.

When Eames shambled in at eleven in the morning, the bright daylight that followed him extinguished as the paper-covered door slammed shut behind him, Arthur’s heart leapt. Absurd. Inconvenient. 

It was no help at all that Eames made a beeline directly for him. Arthur sat rigid on his cheap regulation Office Depot wheeled chair, pretending not to see Eames’ approaching figure while his whole body felt like it was slowly catching on fire. 

“Fancy some lunch?” Eames drawled as he leaned over Arthur’s laptop, the southwestern sun leaking around the edges of the brown paper blocking the huge plate glass windows and giving him a dim halo. 

Arthur squinted at him. “You just walked through the door. We’ve been working since seven a.m.” 

Eames smiled brightly at him. “You think I’ve been slacking? Darling, you wound me.” He mocked a swoon then circled Arthur to land behind him, putting his hands on the back of the chair, fingers brushing against Arthur’s shoulder blades. “And what are you working on, that precludes the sustenance of your body?” He lingered over the vowels of the last word, and Arthur felt the beginnings of a highly inappropriate response prickle over his skin. 

“Nothing,” Arthur said as he smartly closed the cover of his laptop. “Where to?” He swiveled the chair around, causing Eames to have to quickly step out of the way. He didn’t back up far, though, so that when Arthur stood out of the chair he was nearly nose to nose with Eames. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mitra note their position with a moue of dismay. Did it look like they were about to fight? His eyes flickered to Eames’ - the excitement he read there must surely be in his imagination. 

Arthur brushed past him and headed for the door. “You coming?” he tossed over his shoulder. Eames was at his heels instantly, holding the door open for him from behind. As they strode out into the bright parking lot, Arthur took a moment to wonder which car they’d take, but Eames was already heading for Arthur’s Camry. Mitra had downgraded him based on his carelessness with the Lexus. Which was fair, but also a little humiliating. 

Eames looked cramped in the passenger seat and his knee spread a little too far into Arthur’s space. He angled a grimace over to Arthur. “Suppose we should keep it close to the office, I don’t fancy a long drive in this. Here’s a thought- why don’t we pick up some sandwiches at the deli around the corner and go to your flat to eat?”

Arthur blinked and nodded, steering the car towards the deli with no further discussion. There was an odd tension in the car on the way to the flat, after they’d picked up some artisan-locally-sourced-whatever subs from the hipster deli. 

“You want something to drink?” he called from the kitchen as Eames settled on the sofa, unrolling his sandwich on the coffee table. 

“If there’s any beer from the other night, then yes please,” he called back, and Arthur was struck forcibly by the fact that he and Eames were hanging out now, nearly every day. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had hung out with anyone. It was almost like having a friend.

He shook his head at himself. They weren’t friends. Eames was… lonely, or something, and Arthur was. Well, he didn’t know what he was. He was a human being, he supposed. He was having compassion. Or something.

He handed over the beer and watched Eames devour half of his sandwich before he remembered his own and took it out of its paper wrapping. It wasn’t half bad, for all that it had too many ingredients and flavor profiles going on. Eames glanced over at him and he abruptly felt self-conscious of the way he had flipped his tie over his shoulder and rolled his sleeves fastidiously up. He bit into his sandwich a little too enthusiastically, possibly intending to look more manly and less fey, and mayonnaise spurted out of it all over his tailored pants. 

He tried not to leap up in horror but his autonomous response took over, had him dropping his sandwich and shouting “fuck!” as he shot up out of his seat. 

Eames actually giggled. Arthur glared at him but his heart wasn’t in it. A rebellious spirit of mischievousness rose up in him. All he could think about was the fact that he would have to take his pants off now, and part of him - dear lord, the thought went through his mind that maybe he should take them off in front of Eames. Just to see what he would do. Just to put the shoe on the other foot, take the piss. Show Eames that he wasn’t as humorless as he thought.

Maybe just to show him that he actually had really nice legs, nicer legs than Eames probably expected. His hands went to his belt and he plucked at it hesitantly, almost committing to the tease but not quite. 

“Are you truly that squeamish, Arthur?” Eames asked, his eyes merry with fond derision. “You must rid yourself of the offending garment post haste?” Arthur rolled his eyes but kept his hand on his belt, pulling the tongue through the buckle slowly, keeping his gaze on Eames. The prong slipped out of the notch, the belt loosened fractionally. Eames inhaled sharply and suddenly this wasn’t funny at all any more. Arthur couldn’t remember why it was supposed to have been funny, or why he would even try. 

“Just kidding,” he said somewhat woodenly, slipping the tongue back through and turning to go upstairs.

“Come on, Arthur,” Eames called after him. “Put on a show, love.” His voice was selling the tease too hard; he was covering discomfort over Arthur’s ill-considered attempt at humor. 

“In your dreams,” Arthur replied over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs. “I’ll be right down. We should get back to the office.” 

In his room, he sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands for a minute. What was happening to him? Why would he tease Eames like that? It was reckless and uncharacteristic and- his heart was racing. He rose and turned to the closet, resolutely not following the train of his thoughts as they sped through territory marked “here be dragons.”

He was about to step into a new pair of pants when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Eames lounged in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Arthur fought the urge to cover himself like a maiden and continued to step into his pants. 

“Nice underwear,” Eames said, eyes flicking over Arthur’s body. “You were taking a long time. I thought I’d come check in, make sure you hadn’t fainted over that stain.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur gritted out as he pulled his pants up, keeping his eyes on the clean lines of the shirt sleeves hanging in his closet. Once the belt was slotted through the loops and fastened, he turned back to Eames, whose his eyes were closed, his head tilted up. He looked like he was in pain. 

“Are you oka-” Arthur didn’t get the word out before Eames’ eyes blinked open and his face cleared. 

“Tickety boo, love. Let’s go,” he said as he smoothly turned and walked down the stairs. 

“Love,” Arthur mouthed to himself as he watched Eames descend.

 

* * *

 

The job was straightforward enough in theory, but in practice it was taking much too long to get an opportunity to sequester the mark. The troubleshooting was all on Arthur’s shoulders; finding the window for sedation was the bailiwick of the point and it was proving nearly impossible. The mark just had too many people around her, all of the time. There were kids involved; it was a nightmare. 

Eames, however, got off scot free and consequently had too much time on his hands. Hands that suddenly seemed to be all over Arthur. 

Parts of Arthur were enjoying the attention. He was touch-starved at the best of times, he knew that about himself. One didn’t perform research for a living without brushing up against the basic components of psychological well-being. He knew about the Maslow hierarchy and the evolution of the limbic system and the role of positive relations with others in the Ryff scale. He knew he needed to get a certain amount of human contact in order to stay sane. Normally he utilized a combination of professional masseurs (strictly licensed and above board) and the occasional bout of club-begotten casual sex to mitigate the fact that he otherwise had no one in his life with whom he was physically comfortable. 

In other words, it made perfect sense that, since he couldn’t find a decent masseur in Durango nor were there any conveniently obvious gay bars, he would find himself leaning into the brief backrubs Eames had begun proffering. Eames certainly knew his way around a set of tense shoulders, for one. For two, Arthur carried all his tension there, in spades. 

The problem was that ever since the mayonnaise incident, Arthur was finding it all but impossible to stop imagining what other things Eames might be good at in the realm of human contact. It was dumb. In the abstract, he knew that Eames was good at, well. He was good at his job. Which frequently involved a number of styles of seduction. And yeah, he’d imagined that talent being turned on him at various points during their long acquaintance. 

He hadn’t really imagined how it would make him feel though, other than “good.” It made him feel a lot of things he didn’t know that he’d felt before. And, to reiterate, it was dumb. Because an awkward pantless encounter plus a couple of backrubs plus a few meals together didn’t equal the kind of feelings he was having. And they certainly didn’t mean that Eames felt anything like it.

“It” would have to suffice in terms of specificity for now. He was in no way ready to face the bare fact of - that. None of that.

The look on Eames’ face, while he sat in the car and cried over his lost love, flashed in his mind’s eye. He leaned his head down on the edge of his keyboard and took a deep breath in through his nose. The next moment, he almost hit the back of his head on Eames’ forehead when he leaped up at the touch of warm hands on his neck.

“Easy, tiger,” Eames purred. His thumbs slid down either side of his spinal column, fingers spread to dip into the muscles fanning out from Arthur’s neck into his shoulders and upper back. It felt heavenly and Arthur found himself melting back into it. Before he could stop himself, he moaned - just a tiny one, probably inaudible to anyone who wasn’t standing inches away from him. Unfortunately, the one person whom he most wanted not to have heard it was in fact standing mere inches away. Closer, even. Arthur felt the warmth of his stomach pressing against the back of his head as he leaned in to whisper in Arthur’s ear.

“We could take this somewhere else.”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut for a split second. “I, uh, I need to stay here,” he murmured, intentionally ignoring the meaning of that invitation. Eames resumed his standing position but kept his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “I have some work…. Ohhhh shit,” he ended up finishing that with a long groan as Eames’ hands performed a maneuver on his trapezoids that no masseuse had accomplished - he felt like his muscles had turned to soft butter. His mind went a bit blank.

Next thing he knew, Eames was running his hands lightly down the sides of Arthur’s arms and he backed away. “Maybe later,” he said softly, then returned to his desk. 

Arthur kept trying to catch his eye in the hours after that, but Eames had taken a sudden, single-minded interest in the mark’s file and didn’t meet his gaze until afternoon was turning to evening. Even then it was only to offer a nod of farewell as he left the office. 

 

* * *

 

One of the perils of being as efficient as Arthur was was that he was often at loose ends near the completion of the job, and all he had left to do was check and double check and triple check his work for unticked boxes. All the i’s were dotted, t’s crossed, insanely unlikely potentialities planned for, and Arthur was bored. Bored and distracted. 

In the day and half since Eames had given him that last backrub, he’d solved the problem of where, when and how to nab the mark. More pressingly, in the that time, he and Eames had barely spoken. Every time Arthur had caught Eames’ eye, he’d gotten a wry little half-smile and a quickly-thereafter averted gaze. It was driving him quietly crazy. 

He needed to talk to Eames. Just about something inconsequential. Just to dispel the tension. It was probably nothing; perhaps he felt hurt that Arthur hadn’t thanked him properly for the backrub or something. Arthur knew this was bullshit, knew with one fraction of himself how disingenuous and cowardly he was being, but he figured he might need to, well. Take this in stages. 

Eames’ head was bent over a laptop showing ill-gotten footage of the forgery target interacting with the mark, but Arthur could swear that his eyes were closed. Everyone else had cleared off except Mitra, and she was under, practicing the level. 

Arthur crept over to him, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to think of something to say, trying not to draw his attention until something had occurred to him. He probably should have figured it out before he started approaching Eames but now it was too late to turn back - Eames’ eyes had opened and were trained on him. They looked him up and down and then drifted away, almost dismissing him. But Arthur stayed the course, coming to a rest next to Eames’ elbow where it rested on the desk. 

“Was there something you needed?” Eames asked in a distant tone, looking at the computer screen with a mild, neutral expression. 

“I… Yes - no, not exactly. Are you - do you have everything you need? I mean, how’s the forge going?” Arthur couldn’t believe his lack of preparation. He sounded like a fucking imbecile. When had Eames ever needed any help from him, professionally? When had he ever welcomed micro-management? 

Eames took a deep breath and twitched in Arthur’s direction without turning his head. “I’m sorry, Arthur, that I made you uncomfortable the other day,” he said and darted a glance at Arthur before focusing again on the screen.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Arthur began, but Eames got up out of his chair and he trailed off.

“I clearly did,” he said, pacing to come to rest behind his chair, hands on the back of it, eyes fixed on Arthur’s face now. “And I’m sorry.”

“No, you didn’t… I mean,” Arthur halted as he realized how pointless it was to deny that Eames had made him uncomfortable. Oh shit, and now Arthur’s face was flaming. Was Eames really going to … to address whatever this was… here, now? His heart raced. 

“Look, Eames, I like you, but-” _but fucking you, however fantastic it almost certainly would be, would be unprofessional. But I’m afraid that if I started touching you, I would never stop. But I’ve never felt like this before and it scares the shit out of me._ Arthur felt all these these things well up in his throat but he clamped down on them. They would poison the air if he tried to speak them. 

Eames growled low in his throat like a dog and Arthur’s whole body sprang to attention, his cock growing hard as his blood pumped fast in his veins, flooding with adrenaline. Eames stepped close to him, nearly pinning him to the wall. 

“What do you think is happening here?” he asked, and the calmness in his voice belied the electric atmosphere surrounding them.

Arthur swallowed, looked away from Eames’ gleaming eyes. “Well. We’re - we’ve been hanging out. Getting to - getting to know each other. As f-friends.” He knew, as the words left his mouth, how milquetoast and false they were. He knew.

“There’s something here,” Eames said, gesturing between the two of them, coming incrementally closer and lighting Arthur on fire. “There’s something between us and we’ve both known it for a very long time. You don’t _like_ me.” 

Arthur couldn’t catch his breath, and he saw Eames notice it, saw the look in Eames’ gaze change from heat to pity. 

“Arthur,” he said gently. “It’s okay to care about someone.”

“Yeah,” Arthur mumbles, just wanting to get away, take a deep breath without burning his lungs. “Sure.”

Eames stepped away, posture conceding defeat or something like it. Deferral, perhaps. 

“Just call me when you figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

The job was scheduled to go down tomorrow. Arthur hadn’t slept the night before, not really, partly because he could still feel Eames’ body close to his, the heat and presence of it, the inimitable force and pull of it. Party because time was running out. It was running _out_. If they left tomorrow, a month or three or six parting them until the next job, that would be it. There wouldn’t be another…. chance. Choice. Change. What was it, that Eames was asking? What was Arthur supposed to do?

Mitra said they could have the day away from the office if they’d completely finished their prep, so Arthur didn’t feel the need to stay as late as he normally would. Eames of course didn’t show up at all and Arthur was half-glad of it, since he had spent the day brooding about the whens and whats of his next action, not to mention the whys. If it was depressing enough to mull the very real possibility that he would flunk this test life had set him, it would have been intolerable to do so with Eames in the same room. All the same, he felt the absence like an ache. It worried him, because he knew the ache would grow, unless. Unless.

An unseasonable rain pelted the windows even as the late afternoon sun streamed in at the corner of the plate glass window where the paper had come down in one corner. The sky was apocalyptic; sullen, bruised clouds on one side, the other side full of gilded, bright haze. When Arthur stepped out the door, the smell of petrichor hit him like a wall. He got in his Camry and drove to Eames’ apartment. 

On the drive over, his mind was curiously blank. He’d made a decision he couldn’t even articulate to himself, and his deep-seated need for a plan had quieted, seeming content with being pulled along by a deeper thread towards something that felt primally necessary. 

The apartment building hove into view and his heart lurched, but he took a deep breath and pulled into a parking space, killing the engine and letting himself sit there and gaze at the front door without a conscious thought to cling to. Then he got out and climbed the stairs, knocked, and waited. 

And waited. The blankness began to recede and was slowly replaced by a nervous reaction that snaked tendrils of unease through his chest. His skin prickled and his eyes felt dangerously close to watering. 

The door cracked open and Eames peered out, then withdrew as he quite clearly put down the gun he was holding. The door opened wider and he leaned on the frame, a tilt to his mouth that was almost but not quite wry. He looked beautiful. 

“Of course I care about you,” Arthur said, sounding angrier than he’d intended. He shouldered his way past Eames, determined to keep in motion what he’d set in motion. If he stopped now he’d never get going again. He paced around, aware that Eames had followed him into the living area, then sat tensely on the edge of the couch, facing away from where Eames stood watching him.

“I think about you. When we’re not on a job together. I wonder about you. I see things that remind me of you and I think, would Eames like that? Or, what would Eames think about that?” His throat started to close up on him, but he forced himself to continue.

“And when we’re… together, on a job together, I- I knew but I didn’t know. You know?” He laughed but it came out jagged, pained. “I was attracted to you but I didn’t want to know. It’s never worked out before. I have, or I had - I felt like I had too much to lose.” Arthur took a moment to notice that Eames wasn’t saying anything. He wondered if he was fucking this up. His forearms on his knees, his head bowed, he decided to keep going.

“I would stare at your neck or your face or your hands and try to figure out - is this actually a particularly attractive neck or is it just that it’s his neck? I honestly can’t tell any more. I mean, it’s just a neck, right? Everyone has one. It’s just a face…” Arthur trailed off as he registered that Eames had crouched in front of him. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, though.

Eames took his face in his hands and forced Arthur to look at him, then said, “I wonder about you, too. And for what it’s worth, your face is not just another face to me. It’s,” he paused to lean in closer, “specifically the most lovely face I know.” And with that incomprehensible statement, he brought their lips together in a soft brush of a kiss.

Arthur gasped and pulled back slightly to see Eames’ soft gaze roaming the lines of his face. “I mean it, Arthur. You’re lovely. Inside and out. Please, let me,” he said as he came close again, brushing his mouth more firmly, wrapping a hand around Arthur’s waist and pulling him in. 

Arthur felt himself melt into the kiss and into Eames’ hands, the one at his waist stroking his side, the other at the back of his neck, playing with the hair at the base of his skull. His mouth worked against Arthur’s with sincere intent - not teasing at all, a deep searching kiss that had Arthur’s head spinning. 

Arthur felt his heart do a funny little two-step and before he knew it, he was up and across the room, having Eames away. He paced to the window, running his hands through his hair and then covering his face with them. He couldn’t begin to name the emotions assaulting him. It was no more than he’d hoped for, but somehow, despite all the cues and signals, the touching, the massages, the fucking invitation - he hadn’t taken it completely seriously. Or rather, he had - he was here after all - but he hadn’t _believed_ in it.

He hadn’t really believed Eames felt that way. About him. About _him_

He spun to see Eames staring at him, mouth slack in surprise. 

“Arthur, what the fuck?” he asked, dazedly.

“Is this- is this just- am I just-” Arthur couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t know how long ago that - that - his almost-fiance, his lover - how long ago he’d died. He didn’t know.

“A rebound?” Eames intuited. He stood up and walked over to Arthur, taking him in the gentle circle of his arms, lips against his temple. “No, Arthur. No.” 

They stood like that awhile, Arthur staring unseeingly out the window at the sprinkles of rain sparkling down from the livid, hectic sky. 

“He passed away years ago. It was all a long time ago. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I hadn’t said.” 

A great weight, a weight he hadn’t known he’d been carrying, sloughed off Arthur’s shoulders. Suddenly the scene outside the window sharpened into focus. An enormous, ecstatic rainbow encompassed the horizon, the sun shining golden within the arc of it, the grey gloom of the storm framing it. 

“Look,” Arthur said, his hand on Eames’ shoulder.

Eames stiffened but didn’t answer, apparently waiting for Arthur to finish his sentence. 

“No, no - I mean - look. Look out the window.”

Eames turned, still holding Arthur around the waist with one arm. As he took in the scene framed by the huge front window, he sighed long and low. Arthur chanced a look at his face. There were tears shining in his eyes. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Arthur wasn’t sure whom Eames was thanking - him, for showing him the rainbow, or someone or something else. It didn’t matter. He’d never seen anyone so lovely in his life. He reached out his hand and touched Eames’ face, and Eames instantly turned his attention to Arthur.

“I think it’s time, don’t you?” he asked, leaning in for another kiss, but hovering without making contact.

“I do,” Arthur whispered and closed the distance between them.


End file.
